stand and deliver: a highwayman's tale
by MyLadyElise
Summary: AU/AH: 1779, England. Lady Caroline Forbes is a highly sought-after heiress, soon to be betrothed to the equally wealthy, the Honourable Tyler Lockwood. Lord Niklaus Mikaelson is the infamous highwayman who robs her. To her astonishment, he claims a kiss for his ransom. Her life will never be the same.


**stand and deliver: a highwayman's tale**

Author's note: Thanks again to my incredible beta Anastasia Dreams!

This story was first posted three years ago when I still watched the Vampire Diaries. Even though I am still bitter about the state of the show and Klaroline, I've decided to go ahead and repost and finish this work. It is inspired by the legends and ballads of the 17-18th century highwaymen, in particular James Macleane and Claude du Val. You will probably also recognise elements of Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ and _Mansfield Park._

Side ships are Katherine/Elijah, Stelena

In this story, Caroline is the cousin of the Gilberts and Katherine is the oldest sister of Jeremy and Elena.

* * *

The Highway Gentry continue so troublesome in almost every Road round the Town, that it makes Travelling very hazardous and unpleasant; it would be endless to give an Account of every little Robbery that's committed, they being so numerous that every Day furnishes us with one at least, and often with Two or Three at a Time.  
~ _The London Journal_ , 1752

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 _Spring 1779_

Hon. Miss Elena Gilbert  
Park Street, No. 4  
Grosvenor Square  
London

Tues. Evening  
March 30

My Dear E –

You cannot know the Pleasure that your Letter brought to me here in the wilds of Lincolnshire – where I have languished in the abject misery of my Aunt's company. It was almost more than I could bear to feel myself forgotten by all my London friends and relations. Not all the dances or Mrs. Ledger's sweets could rescue me from the contemplation of such a dismal Fate.

After this necessary preamble, I shall proceed to inform you that we had an exceeding good assembly last night despite its being Lent, and that I was very much disappointed at seeing my cousin Steven Forbes of the party, as I had previously heard of his being with some friends in Bath. He _would_ press his Suit again as we went into Supper, despite all my Rejections! He is not to be gainsaid and I am convinced that only my own engagement would induce him to give up his plans for our Marriage. I cannot make him see that it shall never be whilst I have a say. Thankfully, my Father seems far keener on Mr. Tyler Lockwood than his heir Steven, even if Mamma is set on seeing me take her place one day as the Countess of Mowbray. Therefore, pray, do not tell my Mother of Steven's stubborn constancy, as she will, in any case, hear something of the Matter from my Father when we return to Town – and he is not so likely to relate it in sympathetic terms as your poor heart is wont to do, my dear, too soft-hearted friend. I am just grateful that Mamma chose to stay in Town with my Aunt and Uncle Saltzman and you.

In addition to our set at the Forbes' ball, we had the Grants, St. Johns, Lady Rivers, her three daughters and a son, Mr. and Miss Fell, Mrs. Lefevre, two Mr. Watkins, Mr. J. Portal, Miss Moore, two Miss Deanes, and a tall clergyman who came with them, whose name escapes me and who pretended to be shocked to be in the company of a Papist. He spent the better part of the evening trying to convert Papa, much to my father and my Aunt's consternation.

However, let us not dwell on unpleasant news. I received your Letter, indeed, almost a month after you sent it, which I suspect had more to do with the confused Address of the Sender than the inadequacy of the Post. I could not entirely feel myself ill-used, however, for the knowledge that a certain Mr. S. Salvatore would be down from Oxford to Dance attendance upon you, my dear. I could not blame you for your easy Distraction, though I expect more successful and happier News than I have experienced at Grantley. Laugh and scold if you dare, but I shall be very much shocked, indeed, if Easter passes without a certain Announcement in the _Morning Post_.

I am very pleased to hear that the little lord is recovering tolerably well from his cold. Colds are such dreadful things that I cannot imagine how one endeavours to keep a seven-year-old Child confined. How relieved Kat. and Elijah and all your family must be for Henry to be on the mend. Please tell your nephew that I expect him to mind Nurse so that he may venture into the Parks this Spring. And, pray, remind my cousin Jeremy that he is not, under any circumstances, allowed to take my greys to Hyde Park, and that the Grooms at the Townhouse are informed that he is not allowed to have them. He is a dreadful driver, and I'd sooner trust them to a pair of footpads.

I have no more news to relate, but that we are well and eager to return to Town. We shall leave Grantley on the 6th and expect to be in Town by the 9th at the latest. We pass through H. Heath, which, by Fortune, we may not meet with that gentleman who calls himself the Prince of Thieves. Though I cannot say that I would be entirely disappointed by the encounter, for the ladies of Lincolns– say that he has the handsome face of a Devil and the loveliest Accent imaginable that he couches his threats in the most correct Address, flirting with his Victims even as he divests them of their jewels. The Eldest Miss Deane, who is possibly the silliest girl in the Kingdom, proclaims that she'd gladly give up her rubies for one kiss – which seems insensible to me, for I cannot imagine that even a bandit would be so desperate to make that exchange. She is sooner to be knocked in the head for them; however, I believe that she would make a wonderful Bride for my dear cousin Steven.

You never mentioned a word of your new morning coat or slippers, which was the News that I most wished to hear. However am I to last the journey South without that knowledge? Was the embroidery delicate? Did the colour lay nice against your Muslin? Did S. Salvatore swoon at the sight of your fair Beauty?

Yours ever,  
Caroline

* * *

"Thank you, my lady," said her maid to Lady Caroline Forbes as she glanced anxiously towards the imposing figure of the Earl of Mowbray sitting opposite in the coach. His critical eye disapproved of her lady's actions, as it nearly always did. He did not appreciate the independent spirit of his daughter nor the care that she displayed towards her Abigail. "But you really needn't ma'am. I am quite warm," she began and pushed a hot brick a little further towards Caroline's side of the seat.

"Shush, Anna, I have another," Caroline interrupted, a little harshly, though her tone was more directed towards her father, to whom she also sent an almost unladylike glare. She had little patience for the niceties of rank at so early an hour. She pushed the brick back towards her maid carefully with her heel so as not to mar the shine of her boot and accepted her muff from Anna, happily burying her hands into its warmth. Kid gloves, even new kid gloves, did nothing to dispel the bite of a Lincolnshire frost. Mornings were still yet bitterly cold in the North. The sun had not yet risen to warm the night air, despite it's being spring, and Caroline was properly grateful for their blankets and hot bricks and the soft plush seats of her father's carriage. She always felt for the grooms riding exposed to the elements, especially when it felt like rain.

"We stop at Stamford for a cold luncheon and a change of horses," said her father.

"Yes, Papa."

"Caroline," he paused, "I know that we have discussed your … situation before, but I need to make this very clear to you before we hear your mother's strictures on the matter."

"I know that I have not acted in a becoming manner towards Steven, but he tries my patience," she said, a whine creeping into her tone. She knew that her father would have more to say on her behaviour towards Steven when they were relatively alone and away from the prying eyes of her Aunt Forbes. Caroline could even admit her rudeness in dismissing her cousin and taking another's arm into supper. No other action so loudly declared before company her disdain of his presence, but her nerves had been frayed after his constant hints throughout the evening. When he had declared before them all his _right_ to lead his cousin – as if she were already his and their announcement made in the _Chronicle_ or some other post, irrevocable and done when she had no intention of accepting his hand – she had snapped. "Enough, I will chose my own escort to supper, thank you," she had exclaimed hotly and loudly for everyone to hear and promptly took the arm of a startled, though not unwilling, Mr. Fell. She defied even the saints in heaven to maintain their composure.

She could only imagine how Tyler Lockwood would have reacted. Pistols at dawn indeed.

For that gentleman, she would not so much mind the rumours and speculations of an announcement, even if she was not quite sure of the depth of her attachment. At least Mr. Lockwood had the sense _not_ to propose yet.

"You must cultivate more patience, Caroline. As an unmarried young lady and my only child, you are in a precarious position, you must know. Steven is my heir. If, heaven forbid," he paused to cross himself, "I should die before your marriage, Steven will be head of the family. For your mother's sake and your own, you cannot alienate him."

"I merely refused his offer of marriage!" she declared. Steven had pressed her again and again through the obligatory March visit to her aunt, going so far as to propose twice within a week. His behaviour at the ball had been her last straw.

"You humiliated him before others."

"I cannot be blamed for his lack of tact in exposing himself to ridicule."

"Perhaps he should not have acted so familiarly, but he is your cousin, and there was no hint of impropriety in his manner. You did not have to make your feelings so marked before the entire assembly."

"It was hardly the entire assembly, Papa. It was only a country dance, not London."

The Earl sighed. "Before gentlemen and ladies who have connections and business among your acquaintance in London. How can you expect to attract a husband with such poor manners?" In a softer tone, he added, "Caroline, my dear, you have to be careful for your reputation."

Caroline bit her lip and looked out the window. She could see her whole life mapped out with such a husband, witless and dull, playing hostess to country squires who knew nothing of the world, nor wanted to, and tolerating daily strictures on female comportment. "I do not want to marry him, Papa. I know that he is a good match, but I just cannot. I would die of boredom and to be preached at daily … I wager he even believes that Fordyce's Sermons are the way to a lady's heart."

"Perhaps he is a little severe," her father agreed, "and I have told you that you need not marry him, Caroline. Yet, you must be polite to him. He can turn you out once I am dead."

Into the hedgerows, yes, she could imagine that. "I am not a penniless maid," she retorted.

"No, indeed," he conceded, "but I would not have you fallen prey to fortune hunters and ne'er do wells after I am gone."

"Do you think so little of my intellect?"

"My love, you have a warm heart and _that_ is my worry."

"But you are very well, Papa, why should this be my worry now? I am only in my second season."

"It never hurts to be nurture connections, Caroline. You never know when you may need them."

She groaned in an entirely unladylike manner, having heard this argument numerous times. She looks towards her maid for moral support, but Anna appeared to be attempting to blend into the seat, though she did offer her mistress the small workbag of embroidery. Caroline could never bear to be idle, especially when she was frustrated, so she took the bag gratefully though she did not immediately open it. "I may as well accept Steven then, Papa, for politeness will be read just the same. He is impossible."

The Earl looked at her closely, concerned, but hard too. "Has he importuned you, daughter?"

Caroline shook her head, "Of course not, Sir," she hastened to answer, "but he will believe that politeness is just a coy act. I am not a coquette –"

He looked at her pointedly.

She frowned. "I am not so bad as Katherine," she defended herself, "and she is married."

"I do not want you to be like Katherine at all."

"Kat does not know her own good fortune," Caroline said, "there are not many young men as well turned out and interesting as Elijah."

Her father returned to the subject at hand, "As for Steven, I will speak with him if he makes you so uncomfortable, but you cannot shun him."

"Thank you, Papa."

After a long moment of silence, Caroline almost hoped that the subject had been dropped. Yet, the Earl still studied her. He was a strict, though indulgent parent, proud of his daughter's beauty and kindness and he showered her almost daily with presents. Like many fathers of their set, he rarely considered the intellect and spirit of his daughter, and when he did, it was with trepidation. He could hardly conceive a more awful fate than an unmarried Bluestocking for a daughter.

He wanted to see her well-positioned in society, preferably wedded to a gentleman with an estate close to his own, and in his heart of hearts, he would have loved to join her with his heir Steven and to know that the Mowbray title and lands would remain in his direct line. Yet, he loved Caroline enough to indulge her choice of husbands, and was prepared to hand her to another suitable choice, such as the baronet Sir Richard Lockwood's son Tyler, who was being groomed to take his father's seat in Parliament one day – even if he was a Rockingham Whig.

"Why do you dislike Steven so?" her father urged. "He is steady, well-read, his opinions are all correct. He may never set the world on fire by his manner, but he is my heir and he can provide for you handsomely."

"I do not dislike him _so_ much."

"You _do_ dislike him, my dear, which anyone may see."

Caroline frowned. "I do not know exactly, but the idea of marriage to him is abhorrent to me. I wish you would speak to Mamma. Her championship of Steven does her no credit with me. I have made my decision and I do not expect to change it at this late date."

He looked at her closely for another moment, imagining that her thoughts ran to Tyler Lockwood, for whom she had shown a _real_ preference this season. "I suppose that this decision may be related to Mr. Lockwood?" he asked teasingly.

She blushed prettily.

"Your mother will not be pleased by the connection."

"No, indeed," laughed Caroline, "should it come to pass."

"Well, my dear, that is all I shall say on the matter, though I expect that Lady Mowbray will have her say."

Caroline sighed, already dreading her mother's remarks, especially when she received her Aunt Forbes's letter – which, no doubt, would precede her own arrival.

Caroline rested her head against the cushioned side of the coach, enjoying the slightly rocking motions of the road as it evened the nearer they came to London. It was dusk. After two days of travel, and a night spent in a too-crowded inn, she longed for the comfort of her rooms in Piccadilly Street. Her bonnet, long discarded, had been retrieved from the floor by Anna, who jealously guarded it from being crushed and dented by an impatient Lady Caroline or careless Earl of Mowbray. It would not do for her mistress to be seen in a bonnet of questionable state. She was as jealous of her own reputation as Caroline's maid as Caroline herself could be for her own state of dress.

The Earl had long fallen asleep and her lady relaxed in that state of half-wakefulness which makes everything seem a dream, for Caroline smiled lightly and closed her eyes again, allowing her novel to fall down and rest in her lap.

At first, Caroline thought she must be dreaming. The louder and faster clops of riding horses neared and seemed to overtake their slower moving coach. The sound was not unfamiliar on Hounslow Heath, especially the nearer one got to London, where many reckless young men raced their horses and curricles, boasting of their riding prowess in weaving around coaches and chaises, gigs and horse-carts. It was hardly a sound to make one pause.

Yet, the next sound made Caroline's heart plummet to her stomach.

"Halt!" The accent was loud and oddly slurring, the "H" silent, as though unused to English speech, though it was none the less harsh and threatening.

The carriage horses neighed loudly and fought against their reigns, causing the coachman and grooms to shout against the impediment and calm their animals at once, an action which seemed to cause the poor animals some confusion, for they were not used to their handlers' erratic behaviour. Instead, they reacted to the panic in their voices and reared, causing the carriage to lurch suddenly and frighten its occupants to sudden wakefulness.

The coachmen tried valiantly to swerve around the intruders, which threw the carriage's occupants forwards. Their workbags and books fell to the floor and Caroline's head knocked painfully against the side, causing her to bite her lip. With a gasp, she tasted blood and looked to her father with frightened eyes. He lurched forwards with another bump, but braced himself just in time to prevent falling onto his daughter or her maid. "Good God!" he exclaimed.

Another threatening voice joined the first, nearer to the carriage, it sounded just outside of their window, and Caroline could not helping peeking through the curtain, though she could not see very well in the dim light, and she was too afraid to risk throwing the curtain completely open in order to see by the coach's candlelight.

This voice was brutish with a slight Cockney, rather like the notorious footpads that haunted the Tyburn road, though it had something of a foreign element as well.

"Stop or I'll blow out y' brains!"

Caroline and Anna looked at one another anxiously and drew their cloaks about them more securely. With widened eyes, Anna mouthed "Robbers?" to her mistress and clutched her small reticule which held a few coins.

Caroline swallowed nervously and nodded at the same moment that her father swore, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

A pistol fired into the night, causing all three to jump again.

"Aye, Aye," said the driver, trying once again to calm the horses and finally complying with the assailants' request.

"Good God!" said her father again. "What is the meaning of this? Weston?" he called to the coachman, who replied "My lord, we've been held up" between soothing the horses.

The Earl groaned at the confirmation.

Caroline fingered the sapphire pendant around her neck. She should not have worn it travelling, her father had warned her, but it sparkled, even in the dim candlelight of the carriage lantern, a deep sea blue like her eyes. A belated birthday gift from her aunt and a favourite jewel of her grandmother. She could not wait to wear it, even hidden beneath her cloak, and her father acquiesced as he usually did with her earnest pleas.

She had never felt so foolish. Wearing such a treasure travelling and with all the reports of bandits on the road to London. That she even suggested her curiosity and excitement of such an encounter to Elena. What a silly girl she was.

Her father leant towards the window in an attempt to see the commotion, reaching for his own pistol beneath the seat. He'd heard too many stories of the footpads and highwaymen haunting the main roads into London and meant to be prepared.

"No, Papa, please don't," Caroline begged, dropping her pendant, where it fell into the folds of her cloak once again.

She did not have another moment to protest, nor did her father have a moment to load his pistol, before a tall cloaked figure appeared at their door, throwing it open and demanding that they "get out."

His features were partially hidden by the surprisingly groomed beard and a black cloth tied around his head, from which two roughly cut holes allowed him to see. Even in the darkening evening, Caroline could tell that his face was ruddy and that he smelled slightly of wine. Unfortunately, he was not drunk. The assailant nudged her father and maid out of the safety of the carriage with his pistol. She would have followed, if reluctantly, had her skirt not caught the catch of the coach's door, causing her to stumble.

The bandit took this for resistance and grabbed her arm. His grip was firm and bruising when he pulled Caroline down impatiently and she cried out, turning her ankle slightly as she landed. Her cloak fell away, exposing her throat as well as the gleaming sapphire.

"What do we have here, my sweet?" he breathed against her cheek.

"Get away from my daughter!" her father said, darting forwards, his hand outstretched towards her. His pistol had been taken and thrown far to the side, though it was useless without ammunition.

The shock of impact and her stumble muted Caroline's anger briefly, though the bandit's breath and grimy closeness recovered her wits. She struggled out of his grasp and stomped her heel into his boot, making him cry out and shake her. He might have struck her in return had not another, silkier voice intervened.

"None of that," said the voice tinted with a French accent, and Caroline's assailant dropped her arm. "We do not injure ladies." His companion appeared out of the shadows, slender, as elegantly dressed as any courtier of St. James, and wearing a hat, cocked in the French style. Around his mouth and nose, he wore a concealing cloth, which rose slightly as he spoke. She could not see his features, exactly, especially in the shadow of his hat, though his eyes gleamed like her sapphire.

She thought of the Lincolnshire ladies' talk of the genteel highwayman. She should not have. Not then with pistols trained on herself, her father, and her servants. Except, she had not actually thought to meet him and here he must be. Events such as these did not happen to Caroline.

Her breath was harsh and erratic as he approached, his pistols brandished in his outstretched arms, all her nerve endings prickled beneath her skin. He looked at her carefully, his head tilted to the side, considering the large pendant lying exposed at her throat, though his gaze wandered about her entire person. It made her fidget, but she refused to gather her cloak about her form again, unwilling to allow him to see her nerves. For the life of her, she could not make out the murmurings of her father or servants, though she guessed that they must be protesting or complaining.

She had been bold in wanting an adventure, but now she felt sick.

Holy Mother, she prayed, let us not be injured.

The bandit stopped before her.

"My lady, you are hurt?" His voice was soft and clearer, his accent not so pronounced.

Her ankle hurt and she realised that she had been leaning visibly on her other foot. Her lip also throbbed a little. She nodded, without knowing why she answered such a man at all.

"Surrey is a brute," he said, directing his voice to his companion. As if he had no part in this situation.

"And what are you?" she asked defiantly, rather stupidly, but she could no more stop the words leaving her mouth than she could stop breathing. It was not in her nature to acquiesce easily.

Dimly, she heard Anna draw her breath, and saw her maid step towards her. "My Lady Caroline," she said, frightened, but determined. Caroline cursed her maid inwardly for revealing even a part of her identity. But dear Anna, she was loyal to a fault.

He started for the briefest moment at the name, looking strangely _surprised_ , but did not appear offended by her manner. Instead, he answered, reasonably, "I am merely an unfortunate soul reduced by circumstances."

"Unfortunate are your victims," she retorted.

"Fortunate are you, my lady, that I am a gentleman."

Quite suddenly, his attention was drawn to the coachmen's movements to his side. He pointed one pistol towards them, "Do not think of it," he warned, instantly cold, deadly. He pulled back the hammer of his pistol, the metal clanging eerily loud, it seemed to Caroline, who flinched. "I will not hesitate to shoot nor will my friend." His voice did not rise, though the danger was still very audible in his tones. It made the hair on the back of Caroline's neck stand on end and she glanced nervously towards the servants. They looked helpless, fearfully glancing towards the robbers and their lord and lady. Attack was out of the question without weaponry.

"No one moves and no one gets hurt," the highwayman said.

Caroline saw his smile beneath the makeshift mask. His eyes crinkled and glee laced his tone. "That's better, lads," he continued when the coachmen fell back into line beside their lord. "You see, this transaction need not be violent as long as we all cooperate."

He stepped back with a swagger, as though he was master of all he surveyed. The Earl bristled at this arrogance, but received a pistol pointed at his face for his troubles. The younger groom looked wildly at all parties for a moment before taking two steps back and then darting directionless into the night.

"Don't waste your ammunition, Surrey," the highwayman said when his friend pointed a pistol into the direction of the fleeing servant.

"'Aye, he won't get far on the Heath 'fore someone turns out his pockets," agreed the disgruntled Surrey.

"Such loyal servants," his elegant friend said, his voice lowered in companionable understanding. His attention turned once again to Caroline and the Earl, though she could not be sure to whom he spoke. "I do commiserate with you. Loyalty is such a scarce quality in these times."

She frowned in confusion when he knelt at her feet, placing one pistol momentarily by his side and out of reach of the servants and herself.

"Sir?" said his companion, clearly frustrated.

"Watch them, Surrey," he cut off his accomplice, brooking no argument, which was immediately obeyed. With a smirk laced with feigned concern, he took off one glove to trace his fingers along the edge of Caroline's skirts.

"What are you doing?" she asked, fearing for her virtue, quite suddenly.

"My apologies, my lady, you are what is known as collateral damage. 'Tis nothing personal."

She gasped and shrank back from his touch. Out of the corner of her eye, Surrey shoved her father back with a pistol pressed against his chest. "Try it again and I'll blow a hole through you," he warned. Evidently, a favourite threat of that bandit.

"You need not fear me madam." His more elegant friend gathered a handful of fabric and drew it back over her boot. "May I?" he asked gently, gallantly, as though he would not harm a hair on her head.

Caroline might have nodded. She must have, for he ran a hand tenderly around her foot and drew it out. With infinite gentleness, he slipped the boot off and rested her foot against his breeches-clad thigh. His flesh was taut and warm beneath her cold stocking'd foot and she blushed deeply. No one but her maid or Nurse had ever touched her ankle. Certainly not a man or this strange mix of genteel ruffian kneeling before her like a knight before his lady.

His whole being seemed concentrated on this one act as he caressed the flesh around her ankle.

Caroline released a shuddering breath.

He pressed a tender point, causing her to cry out, and he soothed the area briefly with another caress before letting go. "The bone appears sound," he reassured her, gently slipping the boot back on her foot, risking a rakish caress of her calf before letting go and standing up. Far closer to her than might be strictly necessary. He wiped a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth and his skin was much softer than she expected. Like a gentleman unused to manual labour. And he was. You could tell in every line of his suit, well-turned out and tasteful, in the swagger of his walk. Like a courtier. Or a knight. Or Lord Orville in Fanny Burney's _Evelina_ or Tom Jones himself, that rakish hero of Fielding's novel, which her father had forbidden her to read. Just like that.

Except his hand lingered about her jaw a little too long, just as his eyes lingered on hers too long. And he smiled familiarly. She could see it in his eyes again. A gentleman would not have touched her or looked at her so. She should have slapped him for his effrontery, and could not understand why she did not.

Instead, she murmured, "Thank you."

He nodded to her and took a step back, his pistols aiming at them all once again.

Caroline could not understand how a man could go from such tenderness to threats and robbery in one moment.

"Surrey, if you will," he directed.

"Your valuables." Surrey held out a cloth bag of rich embroidered fabric, taking coins from the coachmen at first.

His master rolled his eyes. "The Earl, Surrey, the servants hardly have a farthing together," he insisted impatiently.

How odd that he knew her father to be an Earl. Perhaps the crest emblazoned on their coach was more visible than she thought in the dark. When the Earl hesitated to comply, both robbers trained a pistol on him.

"Papa, please," Caroline whispered fervently. "These things can be replaced, but you cannot."

"Bold girl," said the highwayman, "and clever. I would listen to your daughter, my lord." He nodded the pistol towards the bag.

If possible, she blushed still deeper, the night breeze refreshing her flaming cheeks.

Her father glanced at her and back towards their robbers before dropping his wallet into the bag. "I'll see you hanged for this," he promised. He unfastened his watch and dropped it into the bag, along with his quizzing glass. "Do you know who I am?"

The highwayman bowed elegantly and only replied, "Thank you, my lord." Then, he turned to Surrey with both pistols still trained on Caroline's party. "Search the coach."

His companion complied with some efficiency. Dropping odd coins into the bag and one jewelled hat pin, Caroline's favourite. When Surrey finished, his master – Caroline felt sure that the impudent, elegant young robber was the master – stepped towards her again, intercepting his friend.

In the chaos and her blushing embarrassment, Caroline forgot the sapphire pendant, which now seemed too hot and weighty against her bosom.

He pushed the cloak back over her shoulder, exposing more of her neckline, as well as the sapphire hanging from a black ribbon. Her chin jutted out in defiance, though she dared not move. He may have lowered the pistol trained in her direction, but it still dangled from one arm, and when he moved, a dagger's handle glinted from the folds of his coat. He paid no mind to her slight, tracing the ribbon with his fingertips until he reached the pendant. His bare hand danced briefly across her exposed flesh, raising goosebumps along its route, and he weighed it in his hand.

"Please, sir," she said, "it was my grandmother's."

"Was it?" He raised his gaze from the jewel to her face. "I know something of lost inheritance, by God I do," he murmured lowly so that the others would not catch the syllables.

He was beautiful, she thought wonderingly, every rumour was true. Wisps of golden hair escaped his hat and framed his finely cut cheekbone. She was fairly certain _that_ should not be her train of thought in these circumstances. Even with a face half-concealed by a mask and darkness, his eyes shone brighter than any jewel or moon or stars. They seemed to swallow up her whole world when he stood too closely and she could still feel the weight of his touch on her ankle and against her neck.

"Such genuine beauty," he said.

Her hand instinctively went to her throat in an act that could be defiance or reluctance to part with such a jewel. And, in truth, it was. In part, it was.

Except, she was flustered too, especially when her hand met his and he caught it – firmly, but gently.

And kissed it. Beneath the cloth that protected his face. His bare lips against her knuckles, full and soft and lingering a little long.

She gasped audibly and felt him smile against her hand before he rose from his half-bow.

"You are the bandit who calls himself the Prince of Thieves," she said in some wonderment.

"I see that my reputation precedes me," he responded, pressing her hand in a way that would be scandalous in the drawing-rooms of the _Ton_. "My lady, I will not take from such a beauty. You may keep your jewel."

"Thank you," she answered in bewilderment.

He still had not released her hand. "But for one thing."

She shivered at his pronunciation of "thing," that slurring peculiar to the French. "What do you want of me, if not my jewels?" she asked, her fear returning.

"A kiss to be claimed whenever I ask."

"That is not possible."

"You should be nicer to me, my lady, for I allow you to go without great loss."

She shook her head. "But I do not know who you are and neither do you know me."

"That, love, remains to be seen." His voice dropped, just a little, forgetting for a moment the French lilt she had taken for granted. She had not imagined it to be artifice. So easy and natural, he had not stumbled across the syllables even in agitation.

She started. "Do you know me?" she breathed.

He did not answer, but bowed over her hand. "Until we meet again, my lady," he replied retrieving the accent as quickly and easily as he dropped it.

"What of my father's things?"

His eyes twinkled in mischievousness, unapologetic. "Reduced circumstances and all, mon amour."

He bowed politely towards the Earl and summoned his friend. "Please accept my humble apologies for this necessary inconvenience. I bid you farewell."

Caroline continued to stare after him in confused astonishment as he mounted his horse and tipped his hat to her.

"Good evening, my lord, my lady."

"Good evening," she returned, instinctively, breathlessly, hardly knowing what she said.

* * *

Author's note: A Bluestocking was used to refer to educated, intellectual women in the 18th and 19th centuries, or even those women who just loved to read. It is most often referred to the Bluestocking circle of women in the earlier part of the 18th century (Elizabeth Montague, the so-called Queen of the Blues" and her friends Elizabeth Vesey, Hester Chapone, and Elizabeth Carter), though a latter generation bore the name as well "Hester Lynch Piozzi, Hannah More, and Frances Burney. These latter women would have been about 10-15 years older than Caroline in this story. The term itself came from two things the "bas bleu," referring to French intellectual women or salonnieres, and to actual bluestockings (woollen worsted stockings of informal dress that contrasted with the fashionable black silk stockings). Here there was a suggestion that intellectual women were not attractive or stylish or desirable to men.

Reviews and criticism are always welcome.


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